


Seasons

by meganexrock



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganexrock/pseuds/meganexrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He meets Misaki on autumn; and the strands of his hair are the color of the fallen leaves that decorate the  streets. His walks home are always lonely, and the breeze that shifts already messy black hair feels a little colder everyday that passes, signaling the coming of the winter.  [Four drabbles about Saruhiko and Misaki around seasons. Written for Sarumi Day 2013.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before LSW came out; so it may be a little dissonant with it.

He meets Misaki on **_autumn_** ; and the strands of his hair are the color of the fallen leaves that decorate the streets. His walks home are always lonely, and the breeze that shifts already messy black hair feels a little colder everyday that passes, signaling the coming of the winter.

It’s not love at first sight, as this is not a shoujo manga and there are no spontaneous flowers around them as their eyes met. They are surrounded by trash. This is a side alley Saruhiko takes as a shortcut for reaching home and there’s only trash. Foul smelling bags. _Human trash._ The smaller teen is fighting some high schoolers all by himself and Fushimi thinks it’s stupid. The guy has no change of winning; he must be nuts…

But he looks alive. So alive. A raw splotch of life inside of a dull monochromatic scenery of moving faceless corpses. It stains Saruhiko’s retinas with color and he’s almost blinded for a second. It’s not love: but his heart is pounding.

BEfore he is aware of it, his feet are moving by themselves and he’s tugging on the short boy’s sleeve, pulling him away from his attackers and running ‘til his feet stop unconsciously moving and they’re both breathing heavily. And he doesn’t even know his name. This is stupid.

The shorter boy’s voice reaches his ears then. He’s still a little breathless. “What the hell did you think you were doing?!” He’s angry. Alive. Red hot alive.

“Tch…” the boy in the glasses looks at him with annoyance. “You’re an idiot. Fighting them all by yourself. Do you want to die…?” Because why would he? When he’s so alive…

“What do you even know?!” He answers, his fists clenching and his brow furrowing. “And who is an idiot? You wanna fight, bastard?!” The dark haired boy sighs and shakes his head.

“Why would I fight someone I just saved? You really are an idiot.” He should go, his mind says. His feet are not moving.

There is silence and then--

“...Thank you.” It’s almost a whisper, like it is a secret between them. He doesn’t know when he starts to smile, but he feels it tugging at his lips and cheeks. It’s strange.”My name is Yata, Yata Misaki. I haven’t seen you before on school” Saruhiko doesn’t think he’s seen Yata either. He realizes he’s been skipping a lot lately--

“Fushimi Saruhiko.”

There are no flowers around them. But it sometimes fits: Yata’s smile is bright enough.

 

**

Homra is warm like **_summer_** , but Saruhiko feels cold. Misaki’s smile is as bright as ever _(or brighter…)_ , but somehow it’s always dark around him these days. There’s something eating inside himself and it grows hungrier with each lingering stare those amber colored eyes still manage at him.

While the red clan’s aura burns like fire _(soft flames on a fireplace where people gather around like family_ ) it burns on him like acid; destroying him slowly. It’s corrosive on his world: and everything around him seems to be disappearing fast.

Until there’s almost nothing left for him to hold on to.

When it burns on his mark, it still feels like acid: his flesh melting under his own vicious touch: but the fire inside Misaki’s eyes is hot. Hot as he looks at him with desperation and anger;and he lits up like a renewed flame suddenly combusting again. Like a phoenix.

And then he doesn’t care if he’s lit on fire by those flames as long as they’re Misaki’s flames. That’s right: because once he tasted life, he refused death. It’s an addiction: that warm.

_Mi….sa…Kiiii…._

“I’ll kill you , you fucking traitor!”

Their fights are like summer. Burning hot: Threatening to overwhelm him with feeling like a wave of heat. He can’t escape it: so he learns to love it.

_(He ignores the feeling of emptiness that follows, because it feels too much like winter)_

 

**

Misaki’s life should be like **_spring_**. He’s young, healthy and now he can say he’s got a purpose and meaning in life. It’s not a stupid philosophic answer: he doesn’t like complicated things after all ( _except for videogames. And maybe certain dark haired idiot who’s too complicated for his own good--)_ He’s got a king to follow, a place to belong, people to protect. Most of the time it feels pleasantly warm and comforting.

But sometimes It’s cold, like winter hasn’t left yet, because there’s something missing and he can’t figure out why or what is it.

“You’re spacing out. Be careful” He groans in response to Saruhiko’s voice and turns around to see that almost expressionless eyes looking straight at him. The black haired boy is frowning and Yata thinks he’s seen a lot of that frown lately on his friend’s forehead. It doesn’t suit him.

“I know, can’t we just go in there? This is too slow…” He sighs in annoyance, shuffling his weight from feet to feet, unable to stay calm. Saruhiko clicks his tongue in exasperation.

“They told us to wait. You agreed to this, Misaki” Saruhiko sounds tired. The redhead suddenly wonders if his friend’s been sleeping well lately. He comes to the conclusion he doesn’t know: as he always falls asleep first and his sleep is heavy. He looks away, back to the guys in the room.

They are on a mission for Homra on stand-by, waiting for Kusanagi’s signal to launch the attack and surprise the bastards: He had traced a plan with Saruhiko and had Yata felt lightly annoyed. Wasn’t it easier to just break in there and kick their asses? Mikoto-san was there too, wasn’t he? He could do it easily. Why wait so much?

His body is moving before he can give it second thoughts.

“Misaki—wait--!” but he’s already in there kicking asses, and, looking even more annoyed than ever, Saruhiko is following him, protecting his back like he always does and Misaki wonders what’s missing.

They are successful, but they’ve got bruises and cuts on their bodies as payment.

Yata smiles as he retells the story of how they handed their asses back to those fuckers to Kamamoto , while Saruhiko sits on the bar counter playing with his PDA. Everything is normal-

But there’s cold. And he still wonders what’s missing…

( _He figures it out too late. And the cold that follows when he loses completely what has been slowly disappearing feels like punishment)_

 

_**  
_

Suoh Mikoto’s _(The red King, Mikoto-san, Mikoto…)_ death hits them hard. All of them: even some who didn’t know they cared until they felt it hurt directly or indirectly.

Misaki’s tears feel like rain against his hands, and its **winter** all over again: their shy warm-sharing under the covers resonating with old memories almost buried inside their hearts for protection. It had been innocent once, when their world was smaller and simpler: now it’s twisted. Because no matter how they cover themselves with the bed-covers, they are never safe: Totsuka-san is gone. Mikoto-san is gone. _They_ could be gone at anytime.

The world is just too big: and they are still lonely kids struggling against it.

The tremors shake the smaller body and Saruhiko’s hands had been unsure to reach and touch at first, but now were absolutely unable to _let go_. They wipe those tears with cold hands, and something tugs at his heart with every single crystalline drop that stains his hands with sorrow. He would have thought it impossible: for the readhead to come to him, to talk to him again and seek something from him that wasn’t that adrenaline rush from their fights.

But now he’s here. _Broken._ But still alive: for the pain, visible in every flinch, every unrestrained sob, every tremor that shakes that small body is too real. Too alive. Like Misaki’s always been. Saruhiko wonders if he could cry like that: If he could get past the numbness and poor his soul out like that. He doubts he can.

It pisses him off, makes him furious; seeing Misaki like this for someone else. Because he knew; knew this would end badly. Knew they couldn’t trust anyone. But Misaki had been naïve. Too naïve. And now he was paying: it was snowing on them, the pain freezing into both. Misaki questions what should he do now and Saruhiko doesn’t know. Where he belongs, what should he do and don’t.  

For now there’s only one thing they know they have to do, and that’s to endure winter: and Misaki’s arms around him feel warmer than any blanket they can put over themselves, even while the _rain_ continues.

For maybe sometime they could figure out how to construct a true summer for themselves.


End file.
